


Retrograde

by MapleMooseMuffin



Series: Sheith Month 2018 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Day 1 - Trust/Dynamic, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Keith is crushing on Shiro, Sheith Month, Sheith Month 2018, canon compliant as of s6, platonic!Sheith, pre-kerberos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 19:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15126041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleMooseMuffin/pseuds/MapleMooseMuffin
Summary: Late one night, past curfew, Keith comes to Shiro with a request. “There’s somewhere in the desert I want to go.”--There’s a quiet energy between them, something they both feel on a more instinctual level. It’s almost like sharing a secret, or knowing a coded handshake. Honor among thieves. Keith is a lot like Shiro when he was younger, and that helps them to understand each other in ways that others haven’t. It’s how Shiro knows Keith will tell him the truth, even if it’s a truth that would get him in trouble with another officer. It’s why Keith showed up at his door tonight, and not someone else’s.





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my entry for Sheith Month 2018's Day 1 prompt: Dynamics // Trust. I went more with Trust, as you'll see.  
> This one is platonic Sheith, because Keith is a teenager and Shiro is very much an adult in this one. Keith can still dream though. 
> 
> Unbeta'd again and hot off the presses. I'll be doing Sheith Month prompts throughout the month but let's be real I probably won't get through all of them. (Future fills are sure to be more romantic).
> 
> Enjoy.~

            It’s past curfew by the time Shiro manages to finish the first quarter of tests he’s grading for the sophomore geometry class. The image of grids and cylinders are burned into his weary eyes, hovering in the air before him when he looks up from the page. It only makes his evening headache that much worse. Shiro sighs and leans back in his chair, rolling his shoulders to try and ease the strain in his muscles. He has P.T. in the morning with the rest of the junior officers. He ought to turn in for the evening and get some rest; looking at the time in the corner of his desktop tells him he can still get a full eight hours of sleep if he leaves now. But this test was given out on Monday, and he knows his class is going to start getting anxious if he can’t have the stack finished up and handed back within the week. He hates disappointing them.

            Shiro pinches the edge of his pen cap between his teeth and debates it. If he stays for just an hour more, he can knock out another two, maybe three tests. Then he should be able to get around seven hours of sleep, assuming he falls asleep quickly, which he might not if he’s still got all of these numbers swimming around in his head. At that rate, he could have the tests done on Saturday, and hand them back in class Monday. But if he doesn’t get enough sleep tonight, training in the morning is going to be harder, and then to teach through the day and come back to grade more tests…

            A soft knock on the door draws Shiro’s attention. He frowns. Why would one of the officers want to see him this late at night? Setting his pen down on the desk, Shiro straightens up in his chair and calls out, “Come in.”

            There’s a beat before the handle turns. When the door is pushed open, Shiro is surprised to see not the olive and grey uniform of Garrison faculty, but a slightly baggy red sweatshirt and the skinny student swimming in it. Shiro pinches his raised brows and tilts his head as Keith gently shuts the door behind himself.

            Keith lingers with his hand on the knob. He lets his bangs fall in his eyes, something Shiro has noticed he does when he’s had just enough time with his thoughts to drown out the impulse that usually guides him. Whatever carried Keith to Shiro’s office after hours has been sitting in his mind for a while.

            “It’s after curfew,” Shiro says casually. Just an observance, not an accusation. He hopes it’ll be the prompting Keith needs to start the conversation he clearly came here to have.

            “I know,” Keith says. He gives a little nod and thumbs at the knob, fidgeting. Shiro sees him look around the office, as if he hasn’t been here many times before. Keith looks at the frames on the wall – diploma, honors, a picture of Shiro and his grandfather. He lingers there for a moment, then drifts to look at the little bookshelf and the tiny, dying cactus in its white pot. It’s the third one this semester. Keith knows that.

            Shiro lets him stare for a few minutes, giving him the space he needs to work up his nerve. Privately, Shiro makes the decision that he’s done with grading for tonight. He’s already planning what excuse he’ll make if another officer catches him with Keith when Keith finally decides to speak again.

            “Do you live on the base?”

            Shiro meets his eyes. “Yes. I live in the officer’s dorm, like the other junior officers.”

            Keith shakes his head, quick and short. It shakes his bangs out of his eyes, which are hard to read. “No, I meant, where you really live.”

            Shiro frowns. He isn’t sure exactly what Keith means by that. It’s not as though he’s only pretending to live at the Garrison. He’s been in Garrison dorms ever since he came here for school, like most of the students, Keith included. Some of the local staff and students live off campus on the base, like the Holts, but that’s because they lived there _before_ the Garrison, and had a reason to turn down the complimentary housing.

            It clicks then.

            “Are you asking where my family home is?” Shiro watches Keith nod and lower his hand from the knob. He turns to face Shiro a bit more head on, and crosses his arms while he waits for the answer. Shiro shakes his head. “No, they’re not on the base. They’re in California, actually.”

            That surprises Keith, apparently. He blinks, then pinches up his face, almost looking confused, but his eyes reveal he’s thinking rather than feeling lost. Shiro smiles at him and raises one eyebrow. “Were you expecting something else?”

            It takes Keith another moment to answer. Shiro waits patiently. He’s learned that Keith, despite his frequent lack of it, ironically needs a bit of patience from his peers, particularly when he’s feeling out of his element. It’s partially a consequence of trying to marry his need to act with the constraints of social norms and rules. Shiro gets the feeling he’s been trying harder than ever before to get the two to coincide here at the Garrison. He deserves a fair chance at making that happen.

            “I was hoping you’d have a car,” Keith says. He shifts and looks away, staring at the closed blinds of Shiro’s office window. Shiro nods, slowly, and waits for Keith to flick his gaze back to meet him before he answers that.

            “I don’t have a car, but I can do you one better.”

            Keith frowns at him. Now he does look lost – a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes skimming across Shiro’s face, looking for something more to go off of. Shiro guesses he expected to be admonished for asking for a way off campus after curfew. In all honestly, if Shiro followed the rules as strictly as the Garrison wants him to, he would be scolding Keith. He would have told him off as soon as Keith opened his office door. But only trained military personnel react well to brute authority, and Shiro knew within minutes of meeting Keith that bossing him around and forcing him to follow rules he doesn’t agree with will only blow up in a fight. Shiro was similar when he was Keith’s age. Verbally, and less physically, but always challenging things he didn’t understand. It’s not a bad trait, no matter what Iverson thinks.

            “You’re not going to ask?” Keith says slowly. Curiously. Testing the waters, unable to resist poking the beast to check if it’s really asleep. The way he watches Shiro settles into a wariness. It has fight or flight written all over it, but for once, Shiro thinks Keith might be leaning toward flight. He puts a mental pin in that and plans to come back to it.

            “I didn’t say I wasn’t asking.” Shiro gathers up his papers, piling the graded ones up and stacking the rest on top, then sliding them all into the manila folder. After he puts the folder in his messenger bag he turns back to Keith. “I’m guessing you probably have a decent reason, though. And if you do, I’d be willing to help.”

            There’s a quiet energy between them, something they both feel on a more instinctual level. It’s almost like sharing a secret, or knowing a coded handshake. Honor among thieves. Keith is a lot like Shiro when he was younger, and that helps them to understand each other in ways that others haven’t. It’s how Shiro knows Keith will tell him the truth, even if it’s a truth that would get him in trouble with another officer. It’s why Keith showed up at his door tonight, and not someone else’s.

            Keith steps away from the door, keeping his arms crossed in front of him. He stops at the corner of Shiro’s desk and turns to face him, looking like he’s about to speak, but then he hesitates. Glances at the computer. Furrows his brow, and looks back to meet Shiro’s eyes.

            “There’s somewhere in the desert I want to go.” Shiro waits, but that’s all Keith gives him. Shiro crosses his arms on his desk and leans forward.

            “Why do you need to go there now? I can take you out tomorrow, after dinner. You could even take a bus – you don’t need my clearance to leave before curfew.”

            Something shifts in Keith’s face, starting in his eyes and spreading, tightening his features with a shiver of… not quite fear, but Shiro can’t find another name for it. It’s a loud enough ‘no’ without Keith having to say anything, so Shiro changes his mind.

            “Where are we going?”

            Keith stares, effectively caught in the headlights. Shiro continues.

            “If you want me to take you out into the desert at eleven at night, you need to give me _something_ , Keith.”

            Keith jumps a little. “It’s my dad,” he blurts. Shiro pauses.

            Keith came from a group home, one run by the state. Shiro’s seen his paperwork – he had no legal guardians listed, but rather some additional legal forms explaining he was under care of the government. Shiro assumed he was an orphan. Keith never talks about it, but has gotten into fights with students who mock him for coming from the home. His last one nearly got him expelled last year.

            “Your dad is in the desert?” Shiro asks slowly. Keith looks down. Shakes his head.

            “His … house. Our… my house.” There’s a pause. Shiro is trying to find a gentle way to ask if Keith’s asking him to take him to a father he was taken away from by CPS when Keith adds, “It was in the will. I’m just… I’m not old enough.”

            Shiro pauses. Rethinks what he was about to say in light of this new information. It dawns on him that Keith is asking to be taken home tonight – to his original home, from before he was put in a group home, before he lost his parents. Shiro wants to know why: why tonight, rather than in the morning or later in the week, why after curfew, why Keith wants to go there, what he expects to find or if he even is expecting anything. But Shiro knows from watching over him just how sensitive Keith is about anything related to his family origins. There’s a wound there that runs deep, and Keith has always lashed out whenever it’s pressed at.

            Instead of asking and digging at something that would hurt Keith, Shiro takes into consideration what it might mean that Keith is coming to him with this, and decides to do what he usually does. Give Keith a chance.

            Slowly he stands and picks up his bag. Keith raises his gaze to watch him. His eyes are wide and hesitant, weighted with the question of what Shiro will do as Shiro steps around the desk and comes to his side. Shiro smiles and angles his head toward the door.

            “Come on, then. We should leave now if we want them to let us out.”

            Surprise washes out the hesitation in Keith’s eyes, though it takes him a beat to process. Then he nods and says a quick “Yes sir!” that is so endearing Shiro’s heart aches. Since mentoring Keith, he’s come to understand exactly what the other teachers mean when they talk about the joy of inspiring students’ potentials. Keith’s burns like a flare in the night, rocketing ever higher. Shiro feels so privileged to be able to give him the fuel for that fire.

 

            Keith’s eyes seem almost too big for his face when Shiro pulls his helmet off the handlebars of his bike and holds it out to him. It’s pretty funny, and Shiro quirks a brow as he tries to suppress his grin, asking without words if Keith is going to be alright. It takes Keith a few long seconds to tear his eyes away from the bike. He looks like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.

            “Here. You should wear this if we’re going out,” Shiro says, shaking the helmet in his hand. Keith takes another second before clapping his hands on either side of it and pulling it out of Shiro’s grasp.

            “But, what about you?” Keith looks at the helmet and back to him, frowning. He’s right to be skeptical, and it’s funny that Shiro, the junior officer, star pupil, is the one forgoing safety while one of the Garrison’s wildest cadets gives him a look that says he ought to know better.

            “I’ve only got the one helmet,” Shiro says. Keith twists his frown to the side, clearly not happy with Shiro’s reasoning, but also not wanting to pass up the offer of a ride. Shiro smiles softly and sets his hand on the wide leather seat of the bike. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve done this before.”

            Keith gives him a narrow-eyed look, which, okay, Shiro was kind of asking for that. Admitting he’s been reckless in the past doesn’t justify it now. But Keith marches forward the few steps it takes to reach the bike and leans against it, ready to mount. He pulls the helmet on and fiddles with it for a moment, adjusting, then turns to look at Shiro over his shoulder, determination etched in hard lines across his face. The brief moment of humor passes, and Shiro is back to wondering just what it is that’s nestled so deeply under his skin tonight.

            If they want to get off campus tonight then they need to set out now, so Shiro saves his questions for later and steps around to the left side of the bike as well. “Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?” he asks. Before they came into the garage he’d assumed to answer was no, but the way Keith’s waited for him despite the clear eagerness to get going makes Shiro second guess himself.

            “Sort of. A long time ago,” Keith says. “I know not to throw off your balance and everything, though.”

            Shiro nods. That covers a decent amount of the prep speech, then, but there are still some things better spoken than left assumed. “Alright. If you need me to stop for any reason, tap my chest twice, okay?” Normally when he rides with Matt it’s his shoulder they use for that signal, but Keith is a lot shorter than Matt, and Shiro doesn’t want to risk having him move around too much to try and reach while they’re speeding out through the desert.

            He sees the way Keith swallows, and frowns. If Keith is anxious or afraid to ride, this isn’t going to go well. It’s bad enough Shiro’s taking him out after hours with only one helmet, but making him do something he’s uncomfortable with is where he draws the line. He reaches out and settles his hand on Keith’s shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look.

            “Are you okay? We don’t have to do this,” he says low and even. He feels Keith flinch under his hand, which worries him. “I know you want to go out, but we can find a different way.”

            Keith blushes and pulls back, but shakes his head fast and sure. “I’m fine,” he says, leaning against the bike and gripping the back of the seat, as though he’s afraid Shiro will try to drag him away from it. Shiro doesn’t move, but searches Keith’s face, not sure if he should take his word for it.

            Keith must see his concern. He glances away from Shiro, to the handlebars. “I used to ride with my dad, so it’s fine. I want to.”

            They spend a few moments there, Shiro debating whether or not this is a bad idea and Keith silently insisting on coming. Their window for leaving dwindles down the longer they stand around the bike hesitating, though, and in the end that’s what makes Shiro cave. He has to trust Keith to tell him when something is wrong, or else he never will. Therefor he has to assume Keith really is okay with this.

            “Just promise me you’ll say something if we need to stop,” he says. Keith looks up to meet his eyes and nods again, one firm dip of the head.

            “I will.”

            “Alright then. Step back from the bike so I can get us started.”

            Keith lets go of the leather and takes a step away to make room for Shiro. Shiro smiles at him before he moves, swinging his leg up and over and settling with feet flat against the asphalt. He starts up the bike, settling it in neutral, and holds onto the break before turning back to Keith and nodding. Keith is quick to climb on the back and settle into place.

            “Do your feet reach alright?” Shiro checks.

            “Yeah, I’m good.”

            “Alright. You have to come closer to me, though.” There’s a good gap of space between them and it makes Shiro nervous. “I don’t want you to fall off if we hit rocky terrain out there, especially since you want me to take you into the desert.”

            He feels the bike shift as Keith moves, coming close enough for Shiro to feel his body heat. He still isn’t pressed close enough, though. Shiro looks over his shoulder and tilts his head, encouraging Keith to keep coming. Keith’s face is bright red, and he’s staring down at his arms, hovering halfway through the motion of wrapping them around Shiro’s chest.

            The nervousness from before makes sense, suddenly. Shiro ducks his head to hide his smile, flattered and amused. Keith truly is a sweetheart.

            “You’re going to have to hang on to me,” Shiro says gently. He holds back a snort when Keith huffs out “I know that,” and scooches in to finally rest the way he should. Shiro gives him a moment to get adjusted, then tells him to close the visor of his helmet and be ready to set out.

            From there things are easy. Keith clearly wasn’t lying about having ridden before – or at the least, he’s as much a natural at riding as he is at flying – because he holds on the way he should and doesn’t rock the bike or interfere with Shiro’s balance. He even settles his hand on the seat to brace as they come up to the gate and slow down so Shiro can show his ID and get clearance to drive out onto the base.

            “Junior Officer Takashi Shirogane,” Shiro says to the officer in the booth, handing over his card. “I’m taking this cadet out for some extra credit astronomy work.”

            The officer looks at his ID for a moment, more so a cursory glance than anything serious, and turns to write in their log. Then they lean over to hand back the card and say, “You really ought to get yourself a second helmet, Shiro.”

            Shiro flashes his best smile and lets himself look ruefully guilty. “I know, I keep forgetting to get one when I’m out in town.”

            “If you were anyone else I’d tell you off,” they say while Shiro slips his card back into this wallet and puts it away. “But we’ve all seen you fly, so I trust you. Drive safe, and get back before one.”

            “I will,” Shiro promises, not bothering to clarify which part of that order he’s agreeing to. It’s for the best to keep things vague, just in case he has to back himself up later. The officer raises the bar and waves as they head off, and then they’re gone, off campus and free from critical eyes.

            “Okay,” Shiro says, easing onto the main road, “where exactly are we going?”

            Keith leans forward to make sure he’s heard over the wind. “Take the highway west. About a half hour out there’ll be a turn off.”

            “Just how far am I taking you tonight?” Shiro calls back. Not that it matters. They’ve already come this far, so they might as well finish what they’ve started.

            “It’s not _too_ far,” Keith says. Shiro laughs and takes the ramp.

            The ride is quiet. Thankfully there isn’t too much activity on the roads this late at night. Shiro still drives extra carefully – the wind whipping through his hair and battering his face is enough of a reminder of the risk he’s taking, and he’s not interested in making a detour at the hospital tonight. Dying is also rather low on his itinerary.

            The turn off Keith has him take goes from asphalt to dirt path fairly quickly. It seems like a recreational trail more than anything else, the kind of road dirt bikes and ATVs go down for fun on the weekends.

            “Turn at that outcropping,” Keith says. He means the pillars of sandy rock coming up on the left, and the pass between them leading to whatever is on the other side. The trail turns right and away from the rocks, going further into the flatlands of the desert.

            “Alright, hang on then. This might be bumpy.”

            Shiro waits until he feels Keith wrap his arms tighter around his chest before he turns off the path. The sand and kicked up gravel from the trail crunches under the bike’s tires and makes the ride shaky. Shiro slows down a bit to try and lessen the bouncing for the both of them.

            The pass is wide enough for maybe two cars to drive side by side. The rockface is impressive, and out here, so far away from the light pollution of the base and the Garrison, the night sky is a vast and overflowing pool of stars. Shiro feels a little overwhelmed, and plenty breathless, looking out over the horizon and seeing tens of constellations just within his immediate line of sight.

            “It’s gorgeous out here,” he says.

            “I know.”

            There’s a quiet sort of pride in the way Keith says it, as though he’s responsible for the way the stars glitter over the vast expanse of sand and rock. It’s the kind of pride that comes with sharing something you love with someone else.

            “You really are from out here,” Shiro says, half to himself. He feels Keith nod where he’s pressed against his back. Shiro wonders what it must be like to come back to this. Does Keith feel nostalgic? Calmed by the familiar? He doesn’t sound nervous or distressed, so it must not be a bad experience, being back out here after however long it was. He sounds content, and much less strung up than he was in Shiro’s office.

            Shiro feels honored, suddenly, to be the one bringing him out here.

            The pass between the rocks ends and the desert opens back up around them. Shiro turns right and keeps close to the rockface to avoid the sloping drop off just ahead. He feels Keith’s grip shift around his chest and slows, worried that he’s trying to signal he wants to stop. But he only moves his hand to point toward the valley down below.

            “It’s down there. There’s a path down over there.”

            If Keith hadn’t pointed it out, Shiro wouldn’t have noticed the thin strip of land hugging the edge of the cliff face. It is less a road and more of a hiking trail, but there’s room enough for the bike without making Shiro feel like they’re going to fall off at any moment, so he slows down just a bit more and turns down the winding path.

            As they come around a curve, Shiro catches sight of a wooden building on the other side of the jutting rock.

            “Is that it over there?” he asks.

            He barely hears Keith’s answer. “Yeah,” comes out on the underside of a breath, like Keith’s forgotten he’s answering at all.

            The bike reaches the flat ground of the valley. Driving over the sparse grass and around the jut of the cliff is a short matter, and then they’re pulling up to what looks like an abandoned shack, weathered and wooden, apart from the cement garage-like section off the side. It looks like it was a later addition.

            The entire building looks too small to be a family home, or a home of any kind. Shiro is almost positive this place has no electricity, and he’s not confident it even has access to running water. Part of him wants to ask, ‘This is it?’ again, just in case there’s been a mistake, but he knows. He pulls the bike up alongside the sand dune out by the front of the building and puts it in park.

            “Alright,” he says, giving Keith the okay to move now that he’s set his feet down flat on either side.

            Keith doesn’t move. Shiro waits a few beats, thinking at first that the boy just wants to find the best way to disentangle himself, but there’s a sort of charge to the silence behind him that presses at his subconscious mind and puts him on edge.

            He’s about to turn toward Keith when he hears it. The high sound of air rushing into lungs, rattling as it’s pulled through grit teeth. The exhale shudders out too soon. Keith curls his hands into fists against Shiro’s chest.

            Shiro turns around, as much as he can while still straddling the bike, and sees Keith duck his head, staring down at his hands against the leather seat between them. His shoulders shake when he breathes.

            Carefully, Shiro moves off of the bike, holding it still so as not to jostle Keith. He’s having a harder time muffling the wet sounds of his crying now, especially with the way the helmet morphs the noise.

            Slowly, gently, Shiro reaches out and settles his hand lightly against Keith’s arm. Keith twitches and chokes on the next sound, trying harder than ever to hide what’s painfully obvious. The leather of the seat creaks under his fists. Shiro sighs, heart aching.

            Whatever Keith expected to happen tonight, this isn’t it.

            Like ice cracking under too much weight, Keith’s cries push past his best attempts at suppression and clatter out in sharp, painful waves. Shiro steps closer, desperate to do something for him, even if all that is is sheltering him from the world for a few minutes. Watching someone fall apart despite their best efforts is almost as hard as falling apart yourself, but for Shiro, watching Keith _is_ like watching himself, ten years ago. The heartache he feels is not entirely secondhand.

            A meteor streaks the sky, quick and fleeting. Shiro rubs the meat of Keith’s shoulder until he rips his hands up off the seat and drags Shiro’s helmet off his head. It clatters to the hard ground. Shiro doesn’t mind.

            Keith’s hair is a mess. His face is wet, and his bottom lip is red from where he must have been biting it to keep quiet. He’s shaking as he grinds the palms of his hands into his eyes and lets out a loud sigh that echoes with a sound like a wounded animal’s cry.

            Shiro takes one of his wrists in hand, meaning to pull Keith’s hands away from his eyes before he hurts himself with the ferocity of his frustrated rubbing. Keith moves with the tug, though, and somehow Shiro finds himself with an armful of a sobbing cadet and nothing to do for him. Shiro wraps his arms around Keith anyway, firm and present.

            He learned, after his parents died, that sometimes the only thing you can do for a grieving person is exist with them, and help them to exist too.

            Another meteor streaks by, careless. Or optimistic. Shiro tucks his head down against Keith’s and just breathes, taking the chilly desert air into his lungs in steady, even pulls. Slowly, Keith calms down and follows his example.

            Shiro stays there for him until Keith releases his grip in his shirt and pulls back. Shiro watches him drag sweatshirt sleeves across his eyes to dry his face. There’s a guilt in his face that makes Shiro want to frown, but he doesn’t. Keith stares down at their shoes, black boots beside white sneakers. Shiny polish in front of tattered sole. Shiro turns his heel to show off the scuff in his instep.

            “It’s hard,” he says. Not because Keith doesn’t know, but because sometimes it feels like everyone wants to pretend it isn’t. At least, that’s always how he felt as a kid. His grandfather had known, but his grandfather lost the same things as him. The rest of the world seemed blind.

            “This is the first time,” Keith croaks. He isn’t looking at their shoes anymore, but he isn’t meeting Shiro’s eyes, either. His head is turned toward the dune, his eyes pointed behind it. “I haven’t come back, since…”

            Shiro doesn’t have to ask, knows the way this works. There are certain ways the world can fracture so cleanly as to leave a Before and an After, and those ways are always called “Since”.

            “Why not?” he mumbles. Even in the shadows cast by the bike’s headlight he can see the uncomfortable way Keith swallows. Shiro follows his gaze back to the building – he really can’t call it a house, but maybe it was home, once.

            There’s a dark shadow along the left wall. Like the brush of lightning on an old oak. A memory of death’s touch. Of a lick of flame.

            “I’m afraid,” Keith whispers. His voice cracks and he coughs around the knot Shiro hears in his throat. “I’m afraid they’ll take it away.”

            ‘It’ could be anything. Shiro thinks, maybe, ‘it’ is _everything_.

            “When I was growing up, my grandfather kept my mother’s childhood room locked at all times,” he says. Keith tilts his head, curious but unwilling to give up whatever he sees past the dune. “We didn’t want to move her things.”

            “His things are gone,” Keith says. Shiro studies his face, but it doesn’t change. He just stares out past the dune, to the space beside the building. “Except his bike.”

            Shiro looks back at the building. He doesn’t see a motorcycle outside, which is a good thing, probably, because the wind and the sand out here would have trashed it if it really had been sitting out for months or even years. He eyes the cement garage. That would probably be the safest place to store it.

            Keith moves without warning, turning toward the garage. Shiro follows him, quietly keeping stride and letting Keith lead the way. Whatever happens here is a private thing, even if Keith’s letting him join in.

            Keith turns away from the building before they even fully reach it, turning right to go around the garage. Shiro frowns. If they’re here for the motorcycle, he sincerely hopes it’s at least tarped if it’s been sitting behind the building all this time. Rounding the corner, Shiro is relieved to see there is in fact a tarp, but whatever is under it is no motorcycle.

            The strange shape is as tall as the cement garage on one end. The shape reminds Shiro vaguely of a dragonfly. How he didn’t notice this thing from the other side of the building is a little bit of a mystery, but then, Shiro hadn’t noticed the tree it rests under either, so maybe he wasn’t paying all that much attention.

            Keith steps forward and tugs at the tarp, but struggles. Shiro follows and tries to help with the higher parts, until together they uncover a bright red and white machine with twin fans and a fading 01 painted on the side.

            “It’s some kind of plane,” Shiro guesses. Keith strokes the nose of the vehicle slowly, nearly caressing.

            “It’s a hoverbike,” he says softly.

            Shiro blinks and does a double take. He looks at the fans and realizes they aren’t really fans at all, not quite. There are no blades. The arching seat and the handlebars make more sense now, with so low a windshield. There’s enough room for two, maybe three people to ride, if the third person were particularly small.

            “You said you know how to ride,” Shiro realizes. Keith nods and bites his lip. “Your dad had this… How did he get one?”

            Keith shrugs, and when he speaks, it’s to the hoverbike. “He used to be with the Garrison. Before he met my mom. They gave it to him.”

            _I’m afraid they’ll take it away_. Shiro hears new meaning, suddenly.

            Another two meteors shoot across the sky, just past Keith’s head. It’s the start of a shower he’d reminded his students of this afternoon, and then promptly forgotten when faced with test grading. This afternoon feels like years ago, somehow.

            “It’s their anniversary,” Keith says, answering the question Shiro had wondered but never asked: why tonight? Shiro looks down from the sky and sees Keith lift his head to meet his gaze. There’s a cyclone of emotions in his eyes, from exhaustion to pain to longing. Shiro sets a hand on his shoulder, like he can displace the weight already settled there. It seems to do something, at least.

            Keith takes a slow, deep breath and leans into Shiro’s hand. He lifts his own hand and settles it, shy and tentative, on the edges of Shiro’s fingers. Accepting his presence, in some small way. He doesn’t smile, but something in his eyes says _thank you_ , and Shiro nods. _You’re welcome_.

            “I trust you,” Keith says, quietly, some minutes later. He doesn’t look down from the sky, where they’ve been silently watching the meteors streak by. Shiro watches him for a moment, takes in the way the starlight catches in the new tears rolling down Keith’s cheeks. Slow and quiet, this time. Inevitable and accepted.

            “I trust you,” Keith whispers again. This time, Shiro thinks it’s to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Please drive responsibly. When riding a motorcycle it's important to have all the necessary gear, from helmets to thick clothing to protect you in case of an accident. Shiro is a bad influence.
> 
> Come talk to me about sheith on [tumblr](http://maple-moose-muffin.tumblr.com/)! You can also reblog this piece [here](http://maple-moose-muffin.tumblr.com/post/175438897310/retrograde).


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